When it's Hardest to be a Mother

Sophia's "Mom, can we talk?" often comes when it's late and making it back downstairs after saying good-night to each sleepy head is my number one goal. There are dishes to be finished, laundry to be folded, schedules to be confirmed, and yes, a ME to attend to. On those days when a shower just doesn't seem to happen before 10 PM, it's all I can think about.

But I've often found that I'm the best mother when it's HARDEST to be a mother. When I have to work at it. When I have to pray for strength to be something that, at that moment, I'm not quite up to being.

"Sure, sweetheart. I'll be right there."

I tell you the heart-to-hearts on the end of her bed when she should be sleeping are lovely. Just lovely.

I count my blessings to be a mother and have such moments when I am really "there" for her. To help her make sense of mortality and it's challenges and help her know where to find strength.  And I leave her room thinking, PLEASE. MORE. OF. THIS.

Twenty minutes earlier her voice had interrupted my sigh of finally having some alone-time. My shoulders had admittedly slumped as the words "not now" fought for justification. But I left her room far from the drained woman who resolved to go in earlier.

I am amazed at this thing called motherhood--this thing that many in the world around me see as beneath my potential. Motherhood at its best and particularly when it is hardest, latches onto all the creative powers of eternity, transforming both those mothered and those mothering.

Kids in the Kitchen- Some Hopeful Math

The refrigerator door opened. The kitchen faucet turned on. CLING. CLANG. BAM. The noise of her mother freeing a glass bowl from an impossible stack and closing the cabinet door was confirmation enough. Lyla knew I was starting dinner and from across the kitchen, I saw her eager face. My whole body slumped into an unspoken PLEASE. NOT TODAY. My overwhelmed mother-heart broke as I sent her offer-to-help away to find one of her sisters--someone to entertain her. The kitchen was already a mess and I barely had enough time to shove something into the oven without adding the wonder of childhood to the equation.

I sure hope the final math works out okay. That the disappointments had around our kitchen island add up to significantly less than the tender, beautiful moments.

This morning Lyla stood on a chair next to me not-so-lightly greasing the bread pans. Last night's leftover maple-walnut squash was about to become three loaves of bread. 

When you're three, there's no better way to feel loved and accepted than baking something with your mom--at least that's what Lyla told me. Only not in so many words. Not in any words at all, really. Her eyes sparkled and her every move seemed to involve a twirl, a flourish, or some sort of embellishment. Her message was clearly discernable, beckoning me into her world where stickiness doesn't matter and time is irrelevant. 

Perched on her left elbow, she cocked her head, smiled up at me and licked the butter from her fingers.

I've spent years in the kitchen, shoulder-to-shoulder with three-foot chefs dancing precariously atop kitchen bar stools. Countless eggs have been cracked onto the floor. Pounds of flour have missed the bowl and each of five tongues have discovered why NOT to lick it up.

My older children have become quite the gourmets--whipping up last-minute tasty creations during the busy school-year while I am somewhere between basketball practice and gymnastics or during the summer when they each sign up for an entire week of meal planning, budgeting, shopping, and food prep.

Beau is quite independent.

Sophia is coming along pretty well, too. I love how she perches on one leg at the stovetop. She must have seen me in the very same pose at least a hundred times.

Tyjah still needs quite a bit of watching-over, but everyone loves his lemon-pepper Hake. It's his specialty.

Halle finds herself right about where Lyla is--dancing on the kitchen bar stool and licking butter from her fingers.

I think the math will work out. I think sometimes the most precious, beautiful moments are so subtle that they get lost in the busyness of everyday life with five kids. It's one of the reasons my fingers tap away so incessantly at my keyboard late into the night. Much like an awareness of our blessings can help us discover even more of the beauty of this life, writing about my children and husband forces me to look more closely at our family and at the beauty hidden in the seemingly trivial and unabashedly sticky.

I Thought I Loved You Then

"Do you want to listen to something?'

It had been quiet ever since we both sat down at our desks ten minutes earlier. We share an office, my desk facing one wall and his another. In the evenings, after the kids are all in bed, it is our retreat--nothing but the two of us tapping away at our keyboards.

"Yeah," I replied in perfect confidence, knowing my husband's taste in music mirrors closely my own.

He snickered as The Hamster Dance rudely interrupted the peaceful ambiance I crave after 9 pm.

"Uh...NO thank you."

I can always count on Wes to make me laugh at some point in the evening.

Within a few minutes he found something perfect on Spotify.

"Ooooh. This is nice," I said, recognizing the instrumental version of a song by The Fray.

More tapping on the keyboard.

"This is something you might hear in an elevator," I said. "You know, the easy-going instrumental version of a popular song."

Silence.

"We just made elevator music our listening choice for the evening," I continued.  "I think that makes us old."

Truth be told, I love growing "old" with Wes.

A few weeks ago we showed our kids some YouTube videos of people running the Snake River. It brought back memories for both of us of falling in love in between our own river runs.

That night, in the the family room, ten wide eyes stared up at us, captivated by the stories of the younger versions of their mom and dad.

There's nothing quite like remembering that time when we were just beginning to define our lives by the other's presence. Each of us laying awake at night, wondering if the other could possibly feel the same way. Hoping the time apart, before we could see each other again, would pass quickly. Starting to picture the rest of our lives together.

All that is young love wells up in my heart again--only it's layered, compounded by fourteen years of complete emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual intimacy. A feeling hardly captured with a cliche, "I thought I loved you then."

And I know we're not ancient. But fourteen years of the kind of closeness marriage can foster makes me feel "old" in a good way.

The other day I sat in my car, bawling my eyes out as I listened to Fred's story of Sweet Lorriane on NPR. Have you heard the song he composed for his wife of 73 years?

Again, "I thought I loved you then," just isn't adequate.

How grateful I am for the covenants we have made in the Lord's temple. To know that though we grow old together and one day death will take us, we will be together again. Eternal marriage is a gift from a loving Heavenly Father, made possible through the Atonement of His son, Jesus Christ.

For more information on LDS temples and eternal marriage, go here and here.

A Very Full Heart

There are some days I wish I could copy and paste into all my tomorrows.

Today was one of those days.

Every moment of this morning with Lyla was sweet. We ran a few errands, worked in the garden, ate, and read stories. Nothing unusual, really, but the sun seemed to shine on everything we did.

On Fridays, the kids have early release from school. So after piano lessons we had plenty of time to hike Twin Falls. Everyone kept up. Nobody whined. Nobody fought. The kids played by the river for a long time-throwing rocks, collecting pebbles, and playing survival games.

Dinner was easy- fish and lots of tasty vegetables from the garden. 

After everyone helped straighten up the house, I read aloud, alternating between picture books for the little ones and The Mysterious Bennedict Society. Reading to my kids makes my heart so happy.

At 8:45 PM the chanting started:

"Daddy's home! He's here! Dad! Dad!"

My own heart skipped a beat.

There's no way this man can feel unloved.

Tonight we bent our bedtime rules, grabbed blankets and pillows, and curled up to The Croods. I could devote an entire blog post to what I love about this movie.  I'm glad our whole family feels the same. It was nice to share some laughs together.

As we tucked their sleepy heads into bed tonight, the reality of my blessings overwhelmed me. I lose sight of them sometimes in the midst of all the demands of family life, but every once-in-a-while one of these days comes along with nothing to distract me from all that is good-so very good in my life.

My heart is full.

It's Time to Sell the Children

On Sunday one of our church leaders counseled us to do all we can to minimize contention in our homes. Not one to delay acting on inspired counsel, I thought about auctioning off my youngest two children to the highest bidder Monday morning. You know, because auctions on the Sabbath day would be totally inappropriate.

That night as the fighting between Halle and Lyla escalated to hitting and biting, I reached into my mental grab bag of disciplinary strategies. Ah, yes. The front porch- perfect for a time when I needed a break from the noise to think more clearly. 

Picking my six-year-old up with one arm and opening the front door with the other, I explained with as little emotion as possible that hitting is NOT allowed in our house, so she'll have to wait outside.

"You can try again in five minutes," I told her. 

As I locked the door, Halle defiantly crossed her arms and screamed. Both she and I knew how this would end.

And sure enough, five minutes later I found her sitting quietly on the doorstep, ready for a good conversation and an even better hug.

Great. Situation successfully reset.

Ready to enjoy a peaceful evening, I tucked both little girls into bed and sat down in the hallway just outside their door.

Arggghhhh! Not ten minutes later those two were at it again!

"It's my book!"

"That's my space!"

"Stop singing!"

"Mom! Lyla's out of bed!"

"I don't like you!"

My mind honed in on the irony of the soft primary music coming from their CD player. A lot of good that was doing!

I recommitted to selling both of them just after breakfast the next morning.

Beau and Sophia, the oldest two, hardly ever fight. In fact, they are black belts at communication- watching them have a rare disagreement is even amusing. Beau will quietly, but firmly, state his concern with a classic "When you...I feel..." statement. Then Sophia will take a long, slow breath before restating his concern. Though perhaps a bit dramatic, it's impressive. I don't think I learned those skills until I was well into adulthood. To see these short people with squeaky voices managing their tones and saying things like, "So if I understand what you are saying..." is almost comical. 

My middle child, Tyjah, is getting there, too. He's still pretty good at pressing buttons and minding everyone else's business, but we've seen lots of progress even in the last few months.

(Sigh...)

Recognizing the progress of my other children softened my resolve. Maybe I wouldn't auction off the two little girls. Maybe what we're already doing to minimize contention is sufficient. Maybe I need to recognize the process and not just look for success in the ideal.

Doing all we can do to minimize contention doesn't mean our childrens' bickering won't occasionally drown out the peaceful music coming from their CD player at bedtime. Okay, right now it's more than occasionally. But it's a learning process. Teaching our children to be better communicators, encouraging them to be peacemakers, and loving individuals all takes time and patience. And their little minds need to develop, too. Piaget wasn't making all that stuff up.

Before long I realized the two little girls were quiet- not asleep yet, but peacefully reading books, humming along here and there to the music. I noticed Halle reaching over to gently stroke Lyla's head. "Go to sleep. Close your eyes, " she softly crooned. A moment to melt this mother's heart. 

I'll be keeping these two.

Celebrating Lyla

The contractions were coming right on top of each other and my epidural was only slightly successful at mediating their intensity. Lyla's heartbeat was dropping fast and she wasn't making any progress toward the outside world.

Childbirth had always been the easy part of pregnancy for me. As I carried each of my babies, I became far too familiar with the smell of my toilet bowl, dehydration, and hardened veins from all the IVs. This last pregnancy was the worst of all of them, perhaps because of my age, or the fact that my body had gone through such extreme sickness so many times already. Probably it had something to do with both.

But that last nine months had also been sweetened by an outpouring of compassionate service from friends and neighbors. As I lay on the couch, half-aware from all the medications, the women from church made sure my family continued to eat. They brought meals 3-4 times a week, making sure there were enough leftovers to get us through. My children had play dates and rides to and from school. I had rides to and from the hospital twice a week. And more than a few times, someone showed up on my doorstep with rubber gloves and scrub brushes. Yes, I even had clean toilets to throw up in.

We will ever be grateful for the sacrifice and loving watch-care of so many good, good people.

We were taken care of.

And then there was no heartbeat. Another contraction. Still no heartbeat. No stranger to delivery room dynamics, I immediately recognized the change of atmosphere. My doctor's smile faded into pure concentration. The NICU team arrived. And the cheerleading efforts of one or two encouraging nurses expanded into an entire squad of scrubs and white coats, focused only on the very clear instructions given when something is wrong.

The thought that I might not get to meet this one gripped me, became tangible. I felt desperately powerless. 

So I prayed. I mean EVERYTHING in me prayed. Because at that point it was the ONLY thing I could do.

I heard the doctor call for forceps, then felt my baby being yanked out of my body. 

The unwinding began. Her umbilical cord was wrapped twice around her neck, then around her waist, and her feet, and then her neck again. With each contraction as Lyla had descended out of my pelvis, the cord that had once sustained her was pulling tighter and tighter around her tiny six-pound body.

Up, Over, Around. Up, Over, Around. The doctor and nurses worked quickly to free my baby from her full-body noose.

Tears streamed down my face as Lyla took her first breaths.

Adoring smiles returned to the faces around me. Everything was right again. Peaceful.

Once again able to turn his attention to me, my doctor confessed, "In all my years of delivering babies, I've never seen an umbilical cord nearly that long."

But I was only half-listening. Now looking deeply into those precious little black eyes, I thanked my Heavenly Father for the chance to feel Lyla's chest rise and fall against my own. 

And as we celebrated her third birthday today, I thanked him again.

Suncadia with the Kids

Our foyer was a bustle of activity. Pillow cases stuffed with clothes, hairbrushes, and a few miscellaneous toys landed with a thud in front of the door as each child hurriedly tossed 24 hours worth of belongings from the top of the stairs.

"I can't find my other shoe!"

"Did everyone use the bathroom?"

"How long will it take to get there?"

It was amid the chaos of heading out the door on day three of our vacation that I found Halle in the kitchen. She was standing in front of the refrigerator, nervously searching the floor.

"Mom, my hamster wanted to get out and play and I WAS watching her, but she ran under the refrigerator."

Guilt, worry, and defensiveness were clearly raging a fierce battle within my six-year-old; it appeared to be working out to a three-way tie.

"SHE wanted to get out and play!"

Okay, maybe defensiveness had a slight lead.

During the next 15 minutes everyone took turns announcing a better plan to catch Madelyn, the-world's-chubbiest-hamster.

She scurried under the refrigerator.
Up the back of the refrigerator.
Across the top of the refrigerator.
And down the back again.

This went on for some time until finally she could resist the strategically placed dried corn no longer.

What is it with our zoo whenever we're trying to head out on a road trip?

With the hamster back in her cage, we finally hit the road, this time headed east, across Snoqualmie Pass.

Although Wes and I get away to Suncadia a few times a year, we haven't taken the kids with us since before Lyla was born. We knew they would have a blast pool-side, racing back and forth between the two giant water slides.

We also took time that afternoon to hike down to a swimming hole along the Swiftwater River.

Wes kept a close eye on the kids to keep them safely with him in the eddy. It's not called the Swiftwater for nothing. I've never seen a river barrel along so fast.

We ended the day sometime around 11 pm on the balcony, all eyes fixed to the north and west, watching, waiting for another lightening streak to dramatically cut through the black expanse.

Hushed voices and stillness created a sharp contrast to how our morning had begun. It was one of those little moments when I want to freeze time, when my heart is full, and I can't take it all in fast enough. Gathered there all together, the kids quietly asking what makes thunder, talking about Ben Franklin, and wondering why those people were standing out there in the middle of the golf course, I was filled with gratitude for my family and every minute I get to spend with them.

"Whoa! Did you see that one?!"

"Yah, I think it's getting closer."

"You know it's getting kind of late. Maybe we should head to bed."

"Awwww...one more? We'll all go to bed after one more good lightning streak."

This conversation repeated itself several times before we all gave in, eventually falling asleep to the fading rumble of the passing storm.

Truth and Tears at Jell-O's funeral

The small pile of dark brown earth stood out among all the deep green foliage.

Tears formed in my eyes. And when they threatened to spill over I fought desperately to discreetly wipe them away. Would my husband ever let me live this down? Crying at the funeral of my children's smelly pet hamster they so classily named Jell-O?

Wasn't it bad enough that we were having a funeral for a rodent?!? And that the melodious strains of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing Consider the Lilies poured forth from my husband's iPhone?

Really???

But I was so touched.

"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."

The familiar refrain echoed in my thoughts.

Not only did I feel that Heavenly Father created and loved this pitiful little creature, but also that he was keenly aware of each of us standing in that circle.

And that, like Jell-O, we would someday each pass out of mortality.

"But there is a resurrection, therefore the grave hath no victory, and the sting of death is swallowed up in Christ."

As I stood there considering the doctrines of the atonement, the resurrection, and eternal families, the beauty and vastness of the plan of salvation overwhelmed me.

I rejoiced knowing that if circumstances were different, if we were gathered with tear-stained cheeks around one of our own sweet family members, it would not be the end.

A loving Heavenly Father has provided a way that his children may share in his eternal happiness both in this life and the life to come...as families!

With my husband's "amen" my children each tossed their wildflowers on top of the little shoebox. Wes turned to look at me, his face a reflection of my own. The tears rolling down his cheeks revealed our common experience. And we both smiled, then shrugged as if to say to each other, "Really? Here at the funeral of a rodent?!?

Two years have come and gone and the tiny grave remains a hallowed spot in the corner of our property. It serves as a reminder of the truths that the spirit etched into our hearts that day.

Through Christ's atonement there will be a resurrection and families can be together forever.

photo of hamster by turquoise field

An Evening at Alki

I love where we live. I love that we can head 30 minutes in one direction and be in the tops of the most breathtaking mountains. And if we head 30 minutes in the other direction my children can collect shells and poke at jellyfish in Puget Sound.

The weather was cooler than forecasted last week when we arrived at Alki Beach, so we left our swimsuits in the car.

But the kids all had a great time running along the beach and wading knee-deep in the incoming tide.

 They hauled driftwood.

And sticks.

They dug canals in the sand.

And got a little goofy, too.

 I love watching my kids be kids at the beach.

Beach Walk at Linclon Park

Tyjah holds his breath as we enter the second of two tunnels on our way to West Seattle. We barely make it to the end before his eyes widen and he starts slapping at his knees.

 "Pwhooooooh!"

"I totally could have held my breath for longer! It's just that my cheeks burst!"

On the other side of the tunnel are tall buildings. Bridges winding in an out of each other as I-90 ends its cross-continental adventure just before dumping into Puget Sound. And sunshine. Glorious, abundant sunshine.

There is never a happier people than Seattleites in the summer, when nine months of oppressing drizzle quickly evaporates in the much-anticipated sunlight.

Time for a beach walk at Lincoln Park. 

The cool breeze skims over the Puget Sound and weaves its way through the magic of my children's discoveries.

They poke at a dead jellyfish.

Sophia combs her hands through complex tangles of various sea weeds.

And Tyjah scans the horizon for the biggest waves, running to where he thinks they will crash the hardest.

As the waves roll back out they carry with them the clamor of deadlines and impending obligations that crowd my mind until my thoughts are clear. Free. 

 Leaving me to indulge in my children's exploration and laughter. I am enamored, smitten.

I can't help but notice how the sunlight shimmering on the water seems to reflect all that is pure and innocent about childhood. 

For these few hours everything is beautiful. Powerful. 

And absolutely clear.

Finally we are left with only a few minutes more to wade in the cool water before heading home. 

...but not without one last photo with all the kids.

Wait. I can't see Halle's face. Let's try again.

Oh, yes.

Beautiful. Powerful.

 And absolutely clear.